


Weighed In The Balance

by Euphoric_Mandelbulb



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst and Humor, Disgusting Messes, Episode: s04e06 Yverdon-les-Bains, F/M, Fridge Horror, Friendship, Gen, Jobs, Martin's Van, Post Episode: s04e06 Yverdon-les-Bains, Stealth Crossover, Trigger Warning: Brief Mentions Of Vomit, Trigger Warning: Mentions Of Suicide (Offscreen; Non-Graphic), Warts, Yearning, dilemma, job offer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-21 00:43:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2449022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euphoric_Mandelbulb/pseuds/Euphoric_Mandelbulb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin considers the pros and cons of moving to Swiss Airways. Does one outweigh five?</p><p>Set around “Yverdon-les-Bains”. Not “Zurich”-compliant, because I didn't get a ticket.</p><p>Minor stealth crossover in part 5. No prizes for spotting it, because it's pretty obvious to anyone who's seen the film.</p><p>Spoilers up to and including “Yverdon-les-Bains”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1. Herc

**Author's Note:**

> Rated T for mild swearing, brief descriptions of horrible messes, vague drug references and mentions of suicide.
> 
> Not beta'd, because I have no beta :-( Did not need Britpicking, because I *am* British :-)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In his professional opinion...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Set: between the prologue and main events of Yverdon-les-Bains)

“ _To:_[ _martincrieff@gmail.com_](mailto:martincrieff@gmail.com) _  
From:_[ _scrumptiousflight@web.de_](mailto:scrumptiousflight@web.de) _  
  
_I'm terribly flattered that you consider me an adequate judge of a major airline after a mere two months in its ranks, and shall do my utmost not to shatter your delusions.  
  
Interesting choice of first question, displaying an uncharacteristic level of self-awareness; as it happens, there's no need to worry about flight-deck chatter. Most FOs here are new to the business and still enthusiastic, so their tendency to talk shop sometimes nears your Olympian standard. In response to which, the Captains have developed _their_ skills in subtly changing the subject, to a level which rivals Douglas'. I assure you, you won't even realise until five minutes on.  
  
Said Captains are all rather fun to chat with – mainly old hands with a wealth of anecdotes. And if you intimidate them too much with your own (the _Scottish_ national _cricket_ team in _Douz_?), they're jolly decent at word-games! It'll be just like old (or, rather, current) times, but without anything falling off – nor any cunning schemes and wicked japes, both of which Upstairs sternly frowns upon for all that Bider claims to be a “crazy guy, you know?”.  
The same goes, I'm sure you'll be relieved to hear, for ridiculous hazing rituals. You may walk tall (so to speak) unafraid of anchovies. (Have they honestly not thought up any better ones since my old Air England days?)  
  
On the subject of anecdotes, one minor caveat: please do take care to avoid those awkward little details which might lead to your arrest. Try rehearsing beforehand. If in doubt – which would be entirely justified, I've heard much from Carolyn about various terrible consequences of your panic – you really should just stay quiet; the Captains will be ever so grateful for the chance to get a word in edgeways.  
  
And finally, I'm afraid I haven't the faintest idea whether Swiss doctors offer more effective treatment for warts than their NHS counterparts. Swiss deodorants do seem to be a tad more powerful, if that's any consolation.  
  
  
Best of luck with the interview, Captain!  
  
Your friend  
Captain Hercules Shipwright, Swiss Airways”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Herc's comment about newly-qualified First Officers is based on a similar sentence in “Whatever Were You Thinking Of, Captain?” by Captain John Morton, a retired pilot's overview for the layperson of the aviation industry and how it operates.
> 
> For some reason, my headcanon Martin appearance includes massive warts on his hands – too big for those freezing-sprays to penetrate through to the core/root/whatever. (I went to school with someone who had warts like that on their hands.) Maybe because he gets a lot of splinters during his van jobs, which allow/carry germs under his skin? I don't know. It just seems to suit him. (Hint: lovely as Benedict Cumberbatch looks, my headcanon Martin is really not attractive at all.)


	2. 2. Women

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dragon and the princess have something else in common...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Set: somewhere between the end of “Xinzhou” and the day of Martin's interview)

They'd be horrified to hear it, but two of the most important women in Martin's life have something in common as of late.  
  
  
Carolyn's been staying in the Portakabin later than Martin most days, a practise she usually reserves solely for when Douglas has been especially scheming and may try to sneak something past later. She spends these extra hours in her office, either on the phone or staring at it; when she hasn't stayed late, or the phone didn't ring, she'll be Force Ten for a while the next morning. Even Martin, not renowned for his uptake speed, has drawn conclusions from her new habit of absent-mindedly humming arias when bored or annoyed (and he'd never have thought that the phrase “absent-mindedly” could _ever_ apply to Carolyn).  
  
It isn't affecting her work, or indeed the rest of her day. But it looks as though Carolyn misses sharing more than phone arguments with Herc.  
  
  
Meanwhile, Theresa's post-date emails and phone calls* seem increasingly wistful, for all that she buoys up again after a day or two.  
  
When Martin thinks hard about this, he realises that he feels much the same – after every date, the giddy euphoria slowly gives way to a sort of gnawing realisation that he won't see Theresa again for at least a month, which leaves a feeling like a hole in his chest where the wind's getting in (a hole _gnawed_ _by_ the realisation?). It's unsettling, and he tries _not_ to think too hard about this any more.  
  
Over time, though, the holes are becoming harder to ignore. And when he sees his reflection in a shop window at Venice's Marco Polo Airport just after their fifth date**, and realises that his expression is _exactly_ the same as Theresa's when she turned away to board her plane, it finally occurs to him that maybe the ever-calm and collected Princess of Liechtenstein _is_ just as unhappy about how little they get to see each other as the fretful little sweaty airdot Captain from Wokingham.  
  
*Martin has to share a wireless connection with five laptops and five smartphones, and his own computer is a ten-year-old relic, so even with the software patches and extra memory cards he can't usually run Skype.  
  
**In Venice... 's Marco Polo Airport. Well, they were both in the area anyway, and it has a very nice interactive floor projection which cycles through the four seasons and lets you kick up “leaves” and make “footprints”! They made snow angels on it, which Martin's fairly sure is considered pretty bloody romantic (especially since they didn't get cold and soaked and end up with the backs of their hands all scratched). _And_ he didn't drop Theresa when he helped her up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was absolute murder trying to depict Carolyn missing Herc without making her seem soppy, and I'm still not sure I've succeeded. Once again, I salute John Finnemore!
> 
> The interactive floor projection at Marco Polo airport is real according to someone else's end note (I'm not sure whether the interaction actually extends to snow angels, but it was too cute an idea to pass up). Google is entirely unhelpful. Oh well, it's as real as Theresa and Maxi as far as I'm concerned.


	3. 3. Students

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The perils of student houses. (Contains vague references to mild drug use.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Set: somewhere between the end of “Xinzhou” and the day of Martin's interview)

Martin has just spent two days cringing a lot in a not-very-nice area of Rio de Janeiro, followed by an absurdly long time in his Captain's seat flying home. A warning light came on when they were at their furthest from land (luckily, the Diego Technique sorted it out), Arthur burned the dinners and played Charades (loudly), Douglas noticed that Martin's bald spot has expanded slightly and would _not_ let the subject lie, Carolyn kept barging in to use the sat-com whenever she managed to think up good rebuttals for Herc's trickier comebacks, and overall it has _not_ been a pleasant flight.   
  
It is now 5:30am; Martin is exhausted, hungry, jet-lagged and twitchy; he wants nothing more than to eat, shower and sleep.  
  
Being Martin Crieff, he will have no such luck.  
  
  
It begins with the downstairs loo.  
  
The author does not wish to induce vomiting, hence will spare you gentle readers the trauma of a detailed description. Suffice to say that the door is open, that the revolting mess therein has indubitably been created by a biologically-female human younger than sixty, that every inch of the room is smeared with it, and that the smell is overwhelmingly nauseating. Fortunately, the toilet lid is up.  
  
(The author does not afford fictional characters the same courtesy as is granted to readers, for all that these are someone else's characters.)

The kitchen is little better – every surface (even the ceiling) is coated in various half-dried, tacky and alcohol-scented substances. Dirty tumblers, semi-pulverised lime wedges, used straws and soggy peanuts are liberally distributed around the room; a smouldering hookah is assembled on the table, and what appears to be a failed attempt to build a bucket-bong has been kicked over in the corner.   
Food preparation will not be possible until the entire kitchen has been tidied, cleaned and disinfected - and the sink, yet again, unblocked.  
  
(Martin decides not to risk venturing into the living-room, which he never uses anyway.)  
  
  
Over an hour of effort later, the kitchen is as clean as it ever gets (he is _not_ going to clean the loo!), the sink is no longer clogged, and Martin is near fainting with hunger and exhaustion yet paradoxically unable to bear the thought of eating in the near future.   
Once he's showered with as much vigour as he can muster*, he prepares some pasta anyway and takes it up to his attic to be eaten when he awakens.  
   
*Not like that. You have a filthy, filthy mind.  
  
  
Seven hours later, he nips into the kitchen to wash-up the bowl and grab a drink before heading out for his latest van job, and finds the room occupied by a clump of dishevelled figures in pyjamas and sunglasses. To his mild irritation (though not surprise), most of them are drinking beer rather than water or coffee.  
  
A voice emerges from the huddle.  
  
“Was it you cleaned up in here?... Oi, I'm talking to _you_ , er... Mark!”  
  
“It's _Martin_. And yes, I did. It took _ages_ , I'll have you know, and I was worn-out already – oh God, did I miss a bit? I'm sorry -”  
  
“Nah, 's all good far as I can see. Just wondered where's the weed?”  
  
“It was soggy, and there wasn't much left, so... down the drain,” he mutters, flinching.  
  
There is a chorus of swearwords.  
  
“Meh, was mostly burnt anyway,” one student (possibly the original voice, possibly not) eventually concedes, and the others nod in agreement.  
  
Martin sighs with relief, and feels sufficiently emboldened to ask, “And, and, um – _also_ , the downstairs loo, it was – er, is it _still_ -”  
  
“Oh, yeah, that. I think Alf's gonna hose it when he gets back.”  
  
“Erm... any idea who it _was_?”  
  
They confer.  
  
“Sam's girl, weren't it?”  
  
“Nah, Lucy's, I reckon. Were pullin' faces, remember?”  
  
“Whatever, they've both gone. No numbers or nowt.”  
  
“Nicked me sodding milk, too.”  
  
“You sure it weren't Mags in the bog?”  
  
“Can't have been, she ain't thrown owt at Jack this past week...”  
  
Martin sighs defeatedly, and heads out to his van.  
  
   
It only occurs to him fifty miles later that they never thanked him. The fourth generation of students at Parkside Terrace, while usually non-threatening towards him personally, are definitely the worst yet.  
  
And his mind drifts, inexorably, to thoughts of a small but clean and neat little flat in Zurich, all his own space, with proper food (more than once a day, even!) and a real bed and _no black mould ever again_. (No matter how much bleach he sprays onto his walls and futon, the dreaded stuff always comes back.) Maybe even more than one window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Both disgusting messes of Parkside Terrace are based on real ones from my university Hall of Residence. If anything, I have toned them down. (Though I wasn't sick). The bathroom really was blamed on someone's girlfriend who'd stayed over; I don't know who cleaned it in the end.  
> The kitchen, meanwhile, was in that sort of state almost every morning. I was rarely thanked for cleaning it (admittedly I only did so to avoid food poisoning). Yes, I was the sort of student who doesn't get invited to any parties. Although they did once try to kick my bedroom door down, claiming that they wanted to drag me out to party with them. That door wobbled on its hinges for the rest of my year there.  
> (In case you hadn't realised, I hated my Hall of Residence and everybody else therein. And they hated me straight back.)
> 
> Bucket-bong: look it up on Wikipedia, because I don't understand the mechanics of it at all.
> 
> Parts four onwards are where I mostly gave up on any semblance of plot. Sorry. Feel free to complain.


	4. 4. Van

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wonder why The Van has never broken down "on-air"?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Set: about four hours after the previous paragraph)

At least it made it through the job first.  
  
  
Martin turns the ignition key a few more times for good measure, then slumps against the steering wheel in despair.  
  
It could be something simple, he tries to reassure himself as the honking from behind increases. Just the fan belt, or the spark plug – something he's got spares of in the boot.  
  
Who is he kidding? He's never that lucky. It'll be something big and expensive and impossible, and he'll never be able to afford the repairs. He probably can't even afford to get the van towed to a garage in the first place.  
  
He sighs, puts the van in neutral, stumbles out and shoves the sodding rust-bucket to the kerb.   
(Nobody offers to help, of course, so it takes forever and he's almost run over five times. Unfortunately, a selection of the local children are currently emerging from their after-school activities, so he can't scream any choice words at the drivers.)  
  
  
To his delighted (if disbelieving) astonishment, it actually _is_ just the fan belt. Soon enough, the van is running again and he's on his way home.  
  
Of course, this does mean that he has to buy a new spare fan belt. He'll be living off his in-flight meals for the next week or so (it's that or not meeting the rent), but it won't be the first time he's done that. He's safe, for now.  
  
  
But this has been a timely reminder, and it preys on his mind over the next few weeks. He is dancing on a precipice, and has been for over five years now: there are so few jobs which will fit around his last-minute flights, and most of those are ones he'd never get in a million years.   
If _(when)_ the van _does_ break down for good, he'll have no income whatsoever. He'd have to stop flying and find a full-time job, and that would kill MJN as surely as if he were to move to another airline (or rather, _an_ airline). And it would leave the rest of the crew in the lurch, too.  
  
The van doesn't even have to break down, in fact: too few jobs in one month, and he won't be able to meet the rent no matter how much he starves himself. Possibly he could live in the van (Fitton Airfield's staff would let him stay in the car park... surely?) until he scraped together the money for a deposit on a new horrible attic, but he suspects it might be a lot more complex than that.  
  
It's not as though anyone can help him. Carolyn's closer to bankruptcy than _he_ is; Arthur has only pocket money and pineapple juice; Douglas' income, “supplemented” as it is, mostly becomes three sets of alimony and two of child support; as for Theresa, she's only been dating him for a few months (he doesn't even know all her sisters' _names_ yet), so bailing him out would probably make things all awkward and ruin this... whatever it is they've got between them.  
  
Friendship and loyalty are all very well – stuff that, they're _brilliant_ – but they're not always enough to keep you going. And if MJN's crew all end up unemployed and penniless, they'll probably resent each other for that, so then they might not even _have_ their friendship.  
  
If he moves to Swiss Air, Carolyn will at least have time to wrap things up properly; maybe Douglas and Arthur will find other jobs in that time, too (all right, he admits that's pushing it).   
It'll be a controlled descent, and hopefully the landing will be soft enough to leave them uninjured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never lend money to friends. Even a small loan caused some awkwardness for my best friend and myself (all sorted now, years ago).


	5. 5. Paramount Martin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In his opinion as a fellow practically-professional seeker-after-work-at-which-he-is-not-naturally-capable...
> 
> Enter the Stealth Crossover!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Set: post-Yverdon-les-Bains. Not Zurich-compliant.)

It's the evening after The Interview, and the Martins have agreed beforehand to meet in their usual pub.  
  
Captain Martin likes this pub. It has a secluded TV in a separate room, infrequent karaoke, a quiet and tasteful jukebox, very few rowdy customers, sheltered alcoves, reasonable prices, and _not one single bloody anchovy_. It has some pretensions to gastropub-ness, but the portions are huge and the prices quite low so he's not complaining.  
  
He sits in the far corner by the log fire, trying and failing to hide the extent of his need for the heat. (He's not wearing a jumper, because it's nearly Easter so that would look weird, even though he really ought to.)  
  
  
“Ah, hello, Captain Crieff!”  
  
“Hello... um, Paramount Martin.” (They've never managed to think up a better nickname. Besides, Paramount Martin thinks it's rather appropriate for an aspiring actor.)  
  
“So?”  
  
“So...”  
  
“How did it go?”  
  
“Erm... I babbled like a lunatic, and then it turned out they'd only asked me back because they thought I'd cheated on the written test, and I ended up ranting about how my biggest weakness is that I'm not very good at flying aeroplanes.”  
  
“Oh. Drinks on me, then -”  
  
“And I got the job.”  
  
Paramount Martin is utterly dumbstruck.  
  
“The CEO sat in on the interview because of the whole supposed-cheating thing, and I – I actually _made_ him stay after that was cleared up, I made them carry on the interview! And apparently he _likes_ sticklers even though he's desperate to seem like” - Captain Martin approximates a Swiss accent, just as terribly as he has done French and Irish ones - “ _zis crazy guy, you know_? And... and, okay, he wasn't actually _listening_ to the rant thing. Or so he says, anyway - I don't _know_! All I know is, he offered me the job there and then! Starting in June! I... it's...” He tails off in a mess of incoherent stuttering.  
  
Paramount Martin sighs, and forces a smile. “Congratulations.”  
  
Captain Martin smiles back, then frowns. “Except... is it?”  
  
“I'm sorry? I don't quite -”  
  
“Because if I leave, MJN will fold. And I don't know what the others will do when that happens. And... it would be unfair of me, wouldn't it, to just take this job and leave them without any? It would, it would be selfish and _awful_ and -”  
  
“Martin, you spend every pub night complaining about MJN. You told me last time that they'll be going bust soon enough anyway, and at least this is... some sort of aviation metaphor, I don't remember. You thought leaving was better, anyway.”  
  
“But how can I _do_ that to them? I mean, shouldn't I at least wait until they've all got something lined up for after... after MJN? I should -”  
  
“This is probably your only chance, Martin. I don't mean this rudely, but from what you've told me I think you were lucky even to get the MJN job – you just happened to find the one and only airline broke enough to put up with what you were like back then. And something like what happened at this German -”  
  
“ _Swiss_. It was _Swiss_ Air.”  
  
“Sorry – _Swiss_ interview? That's one in a _million_. You turn this down, and you're losing any chance you have of flying after MJN folds.”  
  
Captain Martin falls silent, looking pensive.  
  
“And speaking of selfish: do you have _any_ idea how I feel right now?”  
  
Captain Martin stares at the tabletop and wrings his hands. Paramount Martin averts his eyes (the warts haven't improved – if anything, they're now verging on body-horror).  
  
“Martin,” Captain Martin eventually says, “I have no idea how _I_ feel right now.”  
  
Paramount Martin is saved from having to think of an answer by the glare of the bar staff, and hurries over to buy pints and curly chips.  
  
  
“Listen, Martin,” Paramount Martin says ten minutes later, “I think I know how to convince you to take the job. Well, sort of.”  
  
Captain Martin looks up from his chips. (He's been trying to balance eking them out and desperately scarfing them down. It isn't going well.) “Yes?”  
  
Paramount Martin wipes his hands on his napkin and fishes a book out of his backpack.  
  
“Here - last two pages of Chapter Three. I'll wait. Please try not to get it greasy, I haven't finished the book myself yet.”  
  
Captain Martin looks longingly at his remaining chips, then wipes his own hands and takes the book.  
   
It's the autobiography of some actor he vaguely recognises from telly, who he wouldn't have thought had done anything warranting a book. Chapter Three is called _Limbo_ , and as Martin flicks through it appears to detail the man's years of unemployment between RADA and his big break.  
  
As he reaches the penultimate page, Paramount Martin leans over and points to a line. “Start there.”  
  
  
These two pages detail, in prose which strives and fails to be of philosophical bent, a great dilemma faced by the author: whether to take the starring role being offered practically on a silver salver, at the cost of his best and only friendship.   
The author's anonymous friend (and flatmate) was a messy, selfish, reckless, alcoholic sponger, who would have ruined any attempt at a career had the author stayed in contact, and whose machinations to get a free countryside holiday had almost ended _very_ badly indeed for the author; the friend was also great conversation, enormously entertaining, good at spurring the more cautious author into doing things he otherwise wouldn't have dared, and in general was the only thing which had kept the author from going mad with boredom during his many long years of “resting”.  
  
(Captain Martin notes that without the friend's influence, the author might have done something _worthwhile_ during this time, such as getting a job. And maybe better friends. The author does not acknowledge this - he was probably glad of the excuse to drink rather than work.)  
  
The author, unsurprisingly (given his future career), chose to put away childish things and take the part. He freely acknowledges his cowardice in breaking this news while his friend was “absurdly high” and in hoping to slip out the next morning unnoticed, as well as in relenting and allowing his friend (and a bottle of excellent wine) to accompany him to the station. Partway, anyway – until he finally summoned up his courage and outright _begged_ his friend to leave him.  
  
Martin starts in shock at the next paragraph, however: one week later, the author's father reported over the phone that he'd have to wait another day before fetching the author's remaining belongings from the old flat, because the police were still going over the place.   
The friend had somehow sneaked home a bloody great _shotgun_ from their disastrous weekend in the countryside, and had blown his brains out shortly after that last farewell. It might have been from loneliness, boredom, despair at the realisation that he himself would never succeed, or simply because he'd lost his 24-hour audience – he left no note, so it remains a mystery for the ages.  
  
  
Martin spends the rest of that night deep in thought, unable to sleep as he compares the actor's (surely exaggerated?) tale to his own situation.   
  
None of _his_ colleagues will be left hopeless, of course. As Arthur said, they'll all find other things to do. He was right the first time – the notice period will give them time to sort themselves out.  
  
If Arthur doesn't get a bellhop job, the entire Crieff family will glowingly recommend him to work with old people.   
Carolyn has, from what Martin can gather, failed in several ventures over the course of her life – she'll move on to another easily enough, and with Herc as a second opinion (Carolyn hasn't been quite as surreptitious as she thinks while brushing up on her German and reading guides to Switzerland) perhaps her next will succeed.   
And Douglas was born lucky – he'll easily smooth-talk someone else into employing him.  
  
  
Except...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pub here is shamelessly based upon my real-life favourite pub. I like it for most of the same reasons that Captain Martin likes his version, and I'm not telling anyone where it is in case I jinx it (one of my other favourite places was ruined soon after I mentioned it to someone, causing much embarrassment when I took them there and found out; I'm not making the same mistake again!).
> 
> I really, really hope that Paramount Martin stayed in-character here – there's so little to work from...
> 
> Guessed the stealth crossover? Well done! Awkward as it made some sentences, I deliberately named no names, mostly for a little extra challenge to people who haven't seen the film (and to minimise spoiler potential). And I went with the original ending from when it was an unpublished novel, which seems to be mostly accepted as what happened after the credits rolled. (Just listen to the music over the closing credits – that sudden note right before the end sounds rather like a gunshot.)  
> I'd seen the film before, but rewatching it inspired most of my ideas in this fic as to what Martin should (and might) do about his job offer. Sometimes, you have to make hard decisions. And if you let a great opportunity go because of a friendship, it can make you resentful and ruin that too. (Speaking sort-of from experience here!)


	6. +1: Douglas Richardson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As ever, Douglas could bring Martin down. (At least this time it'd be unintentional.)  
> Or it might, for once, be vice-versa...

PROLOGUE ( _Set: post-“Uskerty”_ ) _  
_  
  
_“Skip?”  
  
“What is it, Arthur? I'm trying to get this... this out of my uniform.”  
  
“Ooh, I'll help! Anyway... um... oh yes, I remember. Douglas said something a bit odd earlier, just after you were up a tree.”  
  
“Douglas says a __lot __of odd things. Just ignore him, he's probably making it up.”  
  
“...I don't think he was, Skip. He was trying to teach me how to tease people -”  
  
“Oh, God.”  
  
“ - and I was trying to tease __him_ _, for practise you see, and it was really tricky because there's nothing to tease him about, is there? And I explained that to him, and he gave me this weird look, you know, the one with the eyebrow going -”  
  
“Yes, I'm extremely familiar with that one. What happened next?”  
  
“He said that he's 57, First Officer, has three ex-wives and was drinking pineapple juice. But the really weird thing was, he said it like it was all his fault. Or something. What's wrong with drinking pineapple juice? Pineapple juice is brilliant!”  
  
“... no idea, Arthur. No idea at all.”  
_  
  
NOW ( _Set: just after part 5_ )  
  
Douglas is less than eight years off mandatory retirement. Very few airlines would be willing to hire a pilot so close to obsolescence, no matter how skilled or experienced – never mind one with a track record which is not so much _grubby_ as “psychedelically tie-dyed”.  
  
For that matter, Douglas' criminal record isn't the minor impediment he likes to imply. MJN is the _absolute_ nadir of the aviation industry, and Douglas was there for _seven years_ before Martin joined – if Douglas were able to get a better job, he would surely have done so by now (Douglas, unlike Martin, is not the sort to feel conflicted about such things).  
  
And if he _does_ get another job, how long before Douglas' temper gets the better of him? Imperturbable as he usually is, when he snaps Douglas becomes _terrifyingly_ reckless. The sugar brick, the piano and the stunts over Qikiqtarjuaq were the worst, but there have been many other incidents of petty, ill-thought-out revenge over the years. (And _far_ more of well-thought-out and/or very successful revenge, of course. Usually costing Martin a lot of money/cheese/pudding.)  
  
  
So, Douglas will probably end up taking early retirement.  
He'll be living mostly off a state pension (he's unlikely to have much money saved up, what with his daughters to support and his ex-wives having each taken their pound of flesh - totalling somewhat _more_ than £1 - upon exit); without his smuggling and siphoned-off jet fuel for his Lexus, he won't be able to afford his current flat (or, indeed, to run the Lexus itself).  
  
He'll find things to keep himself entertained though, surely. Fun doesn't have to cost money – Martin of all people knows that.  
  
Admittedly, Fitton isn't exactly teeming with attractions, but Douglas could still meet up with his friends to...  
  
Does Douglas _have_ any actual friends outside work? Friend _ly_ as he is with the ground crew, his MJN colleagues seem to be the only ones who know about things like Helena's affair and the whole sobriety whatnot.  
  
  
On that point: how much of all this can Douglas endure before he falls off the wagon?  
  
  
So, it's come down to this horrifying equation:  
  
A full flying career for Martin = Martin doesn't end up unfulfilled and depressed (as he was between his first piloting job and MJN)  
+  
Carolyn is free to move in with Herc = they get to argue face-to-face more often = they are happier  
+  
Theresa gets to see Martin more often = Theresa is happier (probably? Martin really hopes so)  
+  
Arthur stays as truly-happy as ever, because he's _Arthur_  
  
=  
  
Douglas has to take early retirement, so reduced income = standard of living not much above Martin's current status  
+  
Douglas can no longer run schemes or impress people with his ability to fix any problem, and might not even get many chances to play word games (although the Internet may help a bit with _these_ issues)  
=  
Douglas is alone, bored, and possibly without an audience; this potentially sends him to an early grave  
  
  
Oh _God._  
  
Can Martin do this? Risk _killing_ the best friend he has?  
  
Are several people's (probably) lifelong happiness worth up to ten years of Douglas' _life_?  
  
  
How is _Martin Crieff_ \- an aviation-obsessed “joke pilot”, who took seven goes to get his CPL and only became Captain by agreeing to work for free - supposed to decide something like _this_? He's not a... a... doctor! Or a judge, or the CAA! He couldn't even decide whether or not to kill a _cat_!  
  
  
There isn't a manual for this.  
  
There are no rules or regulations.  
  
There's just Martin, pen poised above the box on the job-offer form.  
   
“ _Accept/Decline [delete as applicable]_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's not a cliffhanger. That's an open ending. Sorry. (I don't generally do sequels. Then again, I don't often do multi-chaptered works.) And I don't know if that's what a job-offer form from Swiss Airways is like, or whether it would actually be computerised these days. It just seemed like a good idea at the time.
> 
> There was a time when I had so many ideas for funny little adventure-type Original Flavour pieces. Now all I seem to be able to write is bloody character studies! I can only hope that I recover soon.
> 
> Mandatory retirement age for pilots in the UK is 65. Incidentally, planes captained by a pilot aged over 60 aren't allowed into French airspace.
> 
> As far as I'm aware, Martin doesn't know about Herc turning down Douglas' suggestion/plea re: applying to Air Caledonian. But it's a big hint to the audience that Douglas doesn't always glide through life effortlessly. (Also: if Herc didn't think much of his -own- chances of finding another job if he didn't move to Switzerland, Douglas' chances are likely to be far worse.)
> 
> All of Douglas' most spectacular/silly stunts happen when he's angry: trying to deprive Martin of three months' salary because he mentioned the Helena-epaulettes-deception, not long after she'd confessed her affair; the sugar brick incident when Carolyn made Douglas work on his daughter's birthday; buzzing the polar bears after Martin and Nancy Dean-Liebhart constantly criticised him (and, in Martin's case, acted smug and patronising about it); dragging out the piano for an alfresco performance when he discovered that Carolyn had found a better, more successful charm-bucket of an old pilot... I dread to think what he did after being forced to do the safety video in “Rotterdam”. (Interestingly: he can fit into Arthur's uniform, but has too much of a paunch to squeeze into Herc's jacket? Raises some interesting questions about Arthur's appearance.)
> 
> Martin between piloting jobs: see, or rather hear, “Limerick”. He was very, very desperate to fly, wasn't he? If Carolyn hadn't been near-broke, what would have become of him? I doubt he could have borne spending his life on the ground after so much time, money and effort to get his CPL.
> 
> Pre-Swiss Air takeover, Herc used to live within seemingly-easy driving distance of Carolyn (he comes to her house at short notice for their first date in “Ottery St Mary”) – now that one of them has to fly across France and the Channel if they want to meet up, I suspect they don't have nearly so many actual dates.
> 
> Yes, most of this is conjecture and extrapolation. >shot


End file.
